Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1887-03-09
Mistellaueuns &eadiug,
THE DYING BEGGAR.

THE DYING BEGGAR.
He was only poor old beggar, with
tattered clothing and burst shoes, who lay
bleeding upon the stretcher at the depot
room. Only a poor, old man, and the
pain caused his weary frame to culver
and means forced themselves through his
haf-closed lips. The doctor showed none
of that skill and attention which he be-
slowed upon the wealthy patient, but
with careless hand touched the cruel
wounds and let others wash away the
"He may live," he said, coldly, and ap-
plying few plasters and giving few
stimulants, he passed away from the
stretcher. The old man lay with his eyes
half open, his gray, unkempt hair falling
in struggling curls over his brow. His face
showed marked traces of intelligence and
culture. 1t was sad to see his pale face,
and to notice how he attempted to recog-
nize those who spoke kindly to him. For
days after he was removed to pleasanter
quarters he was unable to speak. But
Eone day he rallied and spoke to as. et'.ss-t..
"Where am ?" he asked, in surprised
tone. Then all the past rushed to his
memory and shudder ran over his frame.
After resting for a few minutes he raised
his head and spoke.
"Stranger," he said, "mine has been
rough journey through life. am poor
beggar, but was not always such. My
early youth was blessed with happiness
and kind loving friends. had happy
home far down in the sunny South, but
many long, years have fled since I have
seen that home. lived pleasantly there
until I reached 10; then I fell in love
with Maud Vincent, poor girl of our
village, and we became engaged. went
to father, told him about it and asked his
consent. shall never forget what fol-
lowed. He was proud, naughty man,
and at once flew into passion.
"'You young scamp" he said, what do
you mean by loving such poverty-strick-
en- creature? Don't ever mention her
name to me again.
"But, father, love her and will marry
her," protested.
"'Then leave this house and never dare
to enter it againn
81 shall never forget his words and his
angry face, as he stood there cruelty point
ing towards the door. With slow, un-
steady step obeyed, and left the room,
passing out Of the house. could not see
mother for she was far away visitir 6 her
| pdEeulS. Lie was udI n 1lO lllC oil
bitterly cold. l went to Maud's home
and told her what had happened. She
put her arms about my neck and begged
me to return to my father, hut was proud,
and hurt in feelings, and would not heed
her advice. The next week we were
married. 1 passed my father often, but
he never even noticed me.
stranger, Maud and I struggled brave
ly for livelihood. We left the old vii
lage and settled in Dakota. But Maud
was a delicate little creature, and when
two years rolled away the snow lay in q
white shroud aroud her grave. It almost
broke my heart, mister, when she placed
her little wasted hand in mine and asked
me to meet her in Heaven. My life was
lonely without her, and I sold the little
home I had made for us and commenced
my wanderings. Forty years--dark and
cheerless years-have gone by since laid
my Maud in that lone grave in distant
Dakota, and all these years have been
a beggar, with glowing friends to SYM
pathize with me, so lonely and unhap-
py"-a tear stole down the old mans
cheek.
"The morning 7 was hurt was walk
steel rails stretching away, like so much
wretchedness, without end. My thoughts
were wandering far off. l was thinking
of my old home in the sunny land Of my
boyhood. 1 determined to 60 back to it
again. l could see the woods that lined
the cotton fields; the lawn and its beau
tiful trees and flowers. My brothers and
sisters all seemed to be around me, and
father-cold, cruel father was there, too.
My heart grew bitter as I saw his face.
Curses came to my lips but they were un-
uttered, for another face fitted across
my memory. Mother was there, too.
Then wondered if she still lived ; if she
even thought of her once petted boy,
now an old ragged beggar; and my heart
almost burst within my bosom. L had
never heard from her. But, oh, stranger,
often when my only bed was hard board,
and the stars were my only light and COM
pany, that tender, kind face has comforted
me and have talked with her in my
dreams. AS walked along the track the
in the inside pocket of my old coat and
drew forth the picture of my mother. That
picture had made an honest beggar Of me.
It had melted my heart time and again
into sadness, and 1 kept it as gift from
Heaven. l was looking at my mothers
picture. l saw the same pitiful eyes 1
loved to look into when child, as she
rocked me to sleep on her bosom. The
pretty little mouth--so much like Maud's--
was as natural as when it first pressed my
infant lips. The more / looked at the
picture the more my heart ached. Then
my thoughts reverted to that lone western
grave, and to the dear little wife sleeping
there. Stranger, l was so wretched that
l just cried out: My God, take me to
hern
WAS it an answer to my prayer? [
know not; but suddenly there came a
confused rushing and rumbling, a sharp
pain-and the iron wheels had rushed
over me and 1 lay unconscious beside the
track. The rest has been a blank. But
last night my mother came to me in the
form of an angel, and with her came
Maud. They beckoned to me, and when
1 stretched forth my arms they vanished
and lay here all alone. But I'm dying
now, stranger. Pm going home."
His head slowly sank back upon the
pillow; his eyes half closed his face
grew pale and ashy. 1t was sudden
change for worse, and those who watched
his wasting breath and glazing eyes knew
that death was silently claiming another
victim.
Suddenly he started up. "Motner, have
YOU no words of love for me? CAL Maud!
Father, forgive your wandering boy-I
have comeback home-to-"
There was shudder; the head drop
ped heavily-and all was over with the
poor old beggar. The cruel iron wheels
had done their work well, and the weary
pilgrimage had ended at last. The Wis
ion of the home in the sunny southland
had faded into the reality of the beauti-
full heavenly home. A cruel father might
repent and write and search for an absent
boy; that cold, silent heart would never
again beat to thoughts of home, or a
mothers face and love animate it. He